breathe in for luck
by rotti
Summary: AU/Soul&Maka/ You fall in love with her on a rainy day.


**disclaimer:** i own nothing, except well my collection of movie tickets.

**little note: **originally, i wanted to write this in first person, but it wasn't coming out right, so here's an attempt at second p.o.v. with soul in fact, and i would love your thoughts on it (because i've never written in soul's view).

* * *

**breathe in for luck**

_My hopes are so high  
That your kiss might kill me  
So won't you kill me  
So I die happy_

You meet her at a house party, thrown by Black Star to celebrate his stardom, or something like that you can never keep track of him and his supposed greatness. She's nothing like the other girls. She's a small thing, and looks a little too young to be seventeen, much less a high school student. Petite, with hair clips decorated with little frogs holding up her pigtails. She's dressed in denim shorts that hang on her hips, and a simple pink t-shirt, her feet decked out in overworn black converse, laces perfectly tied.

Her colors are flat, boring, the type of colors that kids abandon in their crayon boxes: Olive green eyes, ash blond hair, skin that never met a tan. There is nothing vibrant that pops out at you, she's watercolor, opaque. She's nothing like the spray painted girls you are used to, with their sun dripped gold hair, and sky blue eyes.

She's different and you find yourself making your way through sweaty, dancing, and over the top drunk bodies every step making you a little nervous, and you think that maybe a shot or two would have helped.

You find her with Tsubaki, laughing at something you haven't heard. Her laugh reminds you of summer, and that's enough for you to start a conversation with her. She looks at you weirdly suspicious, until Tsubaki reassures her that you are not "a typical boy", and that is enough to comfort her, as she smiles at you, and maybe you were wrong about her being dull and devoid, because that smile is enough to get your stomach tying itself up in knots (which is in fact a little uncool, you admit).

She introduces herself as "Maka" and extends a hand out to you. You can't remember the last time you shook hands with a girl, but you take it anyway, because she's Maka and you're Soul, and this is how you begin.

* * *

You find yourself meeting her at coffee shops. Every week she sits across from you with a book and a matcha latte by her side, and talk about nothing and everything that comes to mind. Today's conversation turns personal, and she's admitting to you, a friend, that she has no interest in dating, whatsoever.

"I don't like the vulnerability that comes with relationships, y'know?" She admits to you, fiddling around with a sugar packet. "In the end people only get hurt and the chances of finding your other self are zero to none."

She drops the opened packet on to the table, little specks of sugar slide to your side. "I've lived with my father enough to know that men are cheating bastards." She gives you a small smile, but it's not enough to hide the sadness in her eyes. "No offense."

You tell yourself that you really don't care, because you are not into girls with wiry frames and underdeveloped breasts. You like girls like Blair, your next door neighbor, wild, sexy, and with no daddy issues, you don't care if Maka likes to date or not. No sir no sir. She's your friend, f-r-i-e-n-d, not girlfriend, or will be girlfriend, please.

You scoff and fake a disgusted expression. "Oh please, as if I'd waste my time on a flat chested girl like you."

She kicks you hard, above your ankles, it hurts because she kicked you and not because, she'll never think of you in a romantic way, because you're Soul, and you're much too cool for a violent man hating girl like Maka.

(Lying to yourself wasn't something you were good at)

* * *

You keep a list of all the things you know about Maka (the Maka list, as you mentally call it, which is very sappy of you to even have).

She has horrible taste in music and listens to overplayed pop songs (You cringe at the thought of Maka actually being a Ke$ha fan).  
She has a secret stash of cheesy romance novels (which you also tease her about, and that gets you many Makachops).  
She saves every postcard her mother sends her, and tells you little bits about her family life each time one comes in.  
She loves it when you play the piano (And you'll admit that you like playing it for her too).  
She transforms into a mother hen and takes care of you when you're sick (And nags you endlessly while doing so).  
You can sit with her in total silence, and be okay with that.  
You like the way her face lights up when you make her lunch, even more when she compliments you on it.

Most importantly, you like that with her, you are Soul, not a piano prodigy, and she's Maka, not a Harvard destined A+student.

* * *

You fall in love with her on a rainy afternoon.

You're sitting on your beaten up, coffee colored sofa, with her head resting on your shoulders. A horror movie plays on, ignored. She's asleep, and her hair smells like peaches and you're painfully aware of how physical close she is, and goddamn it it's so unfair, how emotionally apart you are.

But you do nothing, and listen to the sound of her breathing, sit still, and watch the remainder of the movie.

You're Soul who loves Maka, and you're not sure if she's Maka who loves Soul.

(But dear God, you're praying that she does).

* * *

You confess the next month, unintentionally, because that's how love confessions happen.

You have a locker filled with love notes, from girls you don't know, and that's how Maka finds you.

You've seen Maka angry plenty of times, and you're usually the cause, but this time she's ranting about boys and leading girls on, and somehow you're dragged into this. You have no idea what's going on, other than she's jabbing you in the chest with her finger,and yelling about how "boys are jerks", heartbreaks, and how you're the only one she ever trusted. She's glaring at you, and those love letters you never opened.

And it clicks in your head that Maka is jealous, and you, being a horrible person that you are, are happy about that.

So you let the words slip out of your mouth, a grin adorning your face, and you admit out loud, finally out loud, how maybe you do have a thing for flat chested bookworms after all.

She punches you in the cheek for this horribly planned confession (and it hurts damn it, and maybe you did deserve it this time), and tries to keep her angry mask on, but it slips and you find a breathtaking smile greeting you, and no one can blame you for kissing her now, can they?

* * *

this just happened.


End file.
